


Camelot

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Prince Zayn, Zayn-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heavy lies the heart that wears the crown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thief

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came out of a challenge I gave myself, to take one trope--in this case, medieval AU/prince!Zayn--and write it from all the different pairings. About halfway through writing them, though, I discovered that all the different oneshots were actually all set in the same universe, and Camelot was born. (The universe is one, by the way, that apparently accepts homosexuality completely and where gay marriage is allowed. Just go with it). It's chaptered because it's a series of stories in the same universe, really, rather than one continuous narrative, but the chapters are chronological. 
> 
> I don't own anyone or know anything. 
> 
> Except I do know the summary is horribly misquoted. I just don't care.

Zayn’s chambers are dark when Louis slips in. If he wasn’t the best thief in the kingdom, that might have proved a problem, but he isn’t at the top of the king’s most wanted list for nothing. Sometimes, it feels like he sees in darkness as well as he does in the light. So he’s still silent as a cat as he navigates the room, no more than a shadow among shadows. The bed’s empty as well, which Louis more than half-expected. For all that he’s the thief, it seems like the king keeps Zayn out for longer hours even than Louis’s. Zayn certainly seems to think so, when he tells Louis about it.

Louis doesn’t really understand why, because Zayn’s bed is more comfortable than anything he’s ever slept in. His sheets are softer than anything Louis’s ever seen in the market, and he has books on the table at his bedstand, and the candlesticks on his table are, to Louis’s expert eye, gold. And worth a pretty penny, he thinks, though harder to get out when he has to climb down the walls than the silver cutlery on the plate his servants left, or the gold pendant carelessly strewn over the books.

He shakes his head. It does him no good to catalog the many luxuries Zayn has here, the many ways their lives are different. Instead he falls back onto the bed, lights the candle, and picks a book up off the bedstand, and peers at the letters. Zayn’s been teaching him, when they get a chance, and he’s been practicing, but he wants to amaze Zayn the next time they try.

He snuffs out the candle when he hears the noises down the hall that mean someone is coming, sets the books back where it was, and draws back into the shadows of the bedclothes. Once, he hid like this for a full hour in a lord’s room as he bumbled about, then got out his window with an emerald pendant without the man ever being the wiser.

Zayn’s talking to someone as he opens the door, the young knight who’s often by him when he leaves the castle for official business, who bids him goodnight with a bow and a grin from Zayn. Once he leaves, Zayn pauses. He’s backlit by the light of the hall, gilded by it like his crown, for the moment before he deliberately turns and closes the door behind him. Then he starts to move around the room, light the candles.

“You can come out, Louis,” he calls, as he reaches the candle near the wardrobe, right next to his jewelry box. “Know you’re there.”

Louis heaves a sigh, and uncurls himself so he’s splayed out on the bed instead. “How?” he demands. He had barely even been breathing.

Zayn shrugs, and yanks off his tunic, the gold thread catching the candlelight. “Just knew.” He tosses the tunic carelessly onto a chair, and tugs at the lacings of his shirt so they’re loosened. It billows like the finest linen it probably is, brushing white against his darker skin. “What brings you here?”

It’s Louis’s turn to shrug. “Don’t know.” He lies as easily as he breathes, but not to Zayn. He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he keeps coming back here, to this room that is everything he hates and wants, to this man who should be everything he hates but is actually everything he wants. “Where were you?”

“Ball.” Zayn shakes his head with a shudder as he starts stripping off his rings, ruby and emerald and the heavy gold of his signet. Louis watches the jewels drip off of his elegant fingers onto the table.

“That bad?”

“Worse.” When Zayn turns back to Louis, to the bed, he could almost be one of the boys Louis sees at the tavern, in his breeches and free-flowing shirt, the collar open enough that his collarbones peak through. There’s some other quality to him, a bit, in the tilt of his head and the way he moves, confidence rather than the bravado of the thugs in the tavern, but that could be explained as arrogance instead of years of majesty bred in. “They’re all such snakes.”

“Poor Prince Zayn,” Louis drawls, spreads himself out more on the bed so he can smirk up at Zayn, knowing he’s displayed to his best advantage. “Surrounded by his admirers.”

Zayn grins down at him, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “That insolence?” he asks, “Could have you executed for that.”

“If you were going to execute me, you would have done it a long time ago,” Louis tosses back at him, arching his back to stretch while keeping his eyes locked on Zayn’s with a confidence he doesn’t entirely feel. They joke, but Louis would be executed if he were found here. Found anywhere in the castle, really, which is why he slipped into the chamber that first time, bleeding from a guard’s arrow. He hadn’t known the boy who had looked up unphased from his book and laughed at Louis’s threats had been the prince, not then, and when he had found out it had only made it better. It’s been years since then, but the thrill is still the same, the rush he gets lying in the prince’s bed.

“If I were going to execute you, it would be for more than insolence,” Zayn retorts, and leans down. For a second, Louis thinks he’s going to finally give in, finally take Louis up on the offer he’s silently been making for months, and his breath almost catches—but instead he pulls the pendant out from under Louis’s shirt. “Really?”

Louis grins back as he sits up to take the pendant off and put it back on the table. “A boy’s got to make a living.”

“A boy could be doing honest work.”

“But then you wouldn’t find me half as fascinating,” Louis shoots back, and Zayn chuckles.

“Probably,” He agrees, and sinks down onto the bed next to Louis, his back against the headboard. Louis scoots around so he can sit next to him, their shoulders pressed together. Zayn tips his head back so it thumps against the wood.

“What’s wrong?” Louis nudges Zayn with his hip.

Zayn shakes his head again, then rests it on Louis’s shoulder. “Just tired.” It’s a trusting gesture, in a way no one’s ever really trusted Louis, except for his family. He can’t afford trust, any more than Zayn can; anyone could turn him in. Yet here Zayn is, offering him something much more than what Louis’s been offering Zayn. If Louis had honor, it would honor him. As it is, he just wants to grab at it, at every bit of Zayn he can steal, whether it’s these nights or the days Louis sneaks him out of the palace to run wild and unencumbered by his work. “Tired of everyone here. ‘s just to much, you know?”

Louis looks down at Zayn, at how Zayn’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, how he’s got bags under his eyes, and slides a bold hand around his shoulders.

“We’ll run away,” he announces, suddenly. Zayn picks his head up, raises his eyebrows at him, but it’s a great idea, really. “We’ll go, just the two of us, for good. Somewhere different, somewhere no one knows us.”

“Louis.”

“No, we should!” He’s already half-got their lives planned out, how Louis will steal to keep Zayn in the finer things in life, and he’ll train Zayn into as good a thief as him (well, almost), so they’ll be partners in all things. “It’d just be us, away from all these people, and—”

“Louis.”

He rolls over, so he’s straddling Zayn, so he can look him right in the eye. He’s not pleading, not begging, but suddenly he wants this more than anything. “We could stop dealing with…” he waves a hand behind him, at the gilded room and the people beyond it, at the contentious thieves in the town below who glare at Louis with lidded eyes, “All of this. Just be us.”

Zayn’s brow is furrowed, and he looks kind, which is the worst thing he could look. “Louis,” he says a third time, and Louis doesn’t need the shake of his head to know what it means. “Louis, I can’t.”

“You could,” Louis retorts, sitting back on his heels. Zayn’s stretched out beneath him, his muscles tight, his heart in his eyes. He wants this, Louis knows he does. Wants out of this place, wants to run with Louis in the night, fly over rooftops and feel the thrill of outwitting the guard. They’ve gone out enough time for him to know that, running wild around the city, the fair, even the castle. “I could get you out, no one would ever know. We’d—”

“I can’t,” Zayn repeats, his voice pained but firm, and it’s final, Louis can hear it. Zayn’s the one person he’s ever met who doesn’t eventually dance to his tune, and usually it’s amazing, but suddenly Louis hates it. Hates him. Hates this stupid room with all its expensive hangings.

“Of course not,” he mutters. Of course Zayn wouldn’t want to leave this place, with his luxuries and power and flattery. Of course all his talk about how tired he was, how he hated everyone here, was just talk. He wouldn’t actually choose Louis, above all of this.

But when he moves to climb off Zayn, to get away, Zayn grabs his wrist, keeps him in place. “Oh, Louis.” Zayn sighs. “It’s not—I can’t. It’s…duty,” he finishes at last, slowly, like he’s tasting the word on his tongue. “Yeah, duty.”

“Fuck duty,” Louis mutters. Zayn’s body is warm under his, and he looks like gold. “Come with me.”

“Stop.”

Louis leans forward, keeping his eyes intent on Zayn. “Come with me,” he repeats. “Please.”

“Stop, Louis—”

“Come with me,” Louis says a third time, like it’s a charm.

“I can’t,” Zayn echoes. “Please, I can’t, everything I love is here—”

“I love you,” Louis interrupts. It’s not what he had meant to say, but it’s true. He loves this entitled prince who doesn’t fall for any of his tricks, who he wants to run away with him, far away from all the things that lie between them. “And you want me too, I know, you can’t lie to me, we could—”

“N—”

Louis lunges forward to cut him off with a kiss, his lips crashing against Zayn’s like a storm, desperate as he pushes against him, pushing all the things he wanted from him, for him, in that messy kiss. He’ll keep kissing Zayn forever if it means he can never hear him say no, never hear him say Louis’s not good enough for him.

Zayn exhales sharply into his mouth, and then he presses back, as desperate, and it’s as good as any theft, the thrill curling as richly in Louis’s gut.

Louis pulls back as soon as he’s caught him, though, because he knows the tricks. Zayn’s eyes are dark, his lips pink, and his face is open and soft. “Please,” Louis mutters, “Please, Zayn.”

There’s a second, one glorious second, where Louis knows Zayn is going to say yes, knows it deep in his bones, knows how brilliant they’ll be together.

Then something changes in Zayn. His chin tilts up, his shoulders tighten, his face closes. He still looks kind, but it’s remote. It’s not the boy who ran with him in the fair. He’s a prince, now. He’s the prince, and Louis knows he’s lost him. “Louis,” he says, gently, reaching up a hand to stroke down Louis’s cheek. “I cannot forsake my duty, or my people.”

“You—” Louis starts, hopelessly, but Zayn shakes his head.

“I cannot,” he repeats, and moves Louis off of him, still horribly gentle. “I’m sorry.”

“Right.” Louis can’t stay here, not now. Not now that he’s put so much of himself there, and it’s been thrown back. Clearly all of Zayn’s offers, the trust, the gentleness, were lies. Prince’s lies, bones for his dog, for the poor thief who climbed in his window to amuse him from time to time. He’s off the bed in a second, ignoring Zayn’s wide-eyed face. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Business in the lower city, afraid I do.” Louis’s not sure what he’s saying, he just has to leave. Has to leave for good. How long has he had this hope? He’s not even sure, but now that it’s gone, he can’t be here. How could he have been so stupid? “Actually, business far away, probably. Very far.”

“No, Louis—”

“You made your choice!” Louis spits back at him, “You chose, and I’m going. You could have come with me.” Because he’s pathetic, he adds, “You still could.”

“I can’t!” Zayn’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, his knuckles white where he grabs at the covers. “You don’t understand, it’s my—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is this something a thief can’t understand?” Louis whirls a foot away from the window. “I understand loyalty, Zayn.”

“I know, I didn’t mean…”

Louis can’t listen to this anymore. Can’t—just can’t, can’t think about this place anymore. “Goodbye, Zayn. I hope you’re happy here.” He slings a leg over the windowsill.

“Louis.” Something in Zayn’s voice makes him turn back. Zayn’s standing now, and how had Louis ever thought he looked like a lad in a tavern? He’s royalty down to his bones, like a diamond, that would be a diamond no matter the roughness of it’s setting. He could never have come with Louis. His face is expressionless, a mask like Louis’s never seen on his face before, not even when he snuck into the throne room to watch him listening to his father at court.

“What?”

“Give it back.”

Of course, even now, he calls all of Louis’s tricks. Louis lets the pendant drop from between his fingers, catching the light and shining as gold as Zayn’s eyes. “No,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said that to Zayn, probably. “I’m keeping it. Think of it as a consolation prize.”

He’s out the window before Zayn can object. It’s not like he’ll miss it, among all his other jewelry. And anyway, Louis thinks, biting down on his lips so the tears gathering in his eyes don’t fall and give him away, he has a trip to plan. Someone else would just have slowed him down.


	2. Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the last chapter was, Izzy has Tamora Pierce feels, this chapter is Izzy has King Arthur feels.

Liam grins as he rides into the castle, Loki’s hooves thundering beneath him as he reins him in in the courtyard. He is sweaty and still has blood on his armor and is tired beyond belief, but he is home again, at long last. The stablehand grins at him as he hands off the reins and dismounts, careful to keep his weight off of his left leg where the claws had scored through the leather, and many of the other boys chatter questions that he grins and ignores. He must report to the king before he tells anyone, and then he must report a second time.

So after he disarms, he heads into the keep itself, through the well-known halls. The servants smile as he pass, the ladies curtsey and give him speculative glances, a lord nods at him, but he does not deviate from his path towards the throne room.

Court is being held, as he knew it would be, the throne room filled with brightly colored lord and ladies interspersed with the roughed homespun of peasants come to petition their king. But the king is not on his throne. Liam ducks his head immediately, does not look at the man sitting on the throne. He had not expected—he had expected time, time to compose himself and his story. It was not often the king was not on his throne, though Liam could glow with the honor it meant. Instead, he mutters his name to the herald, who does not need it but announces him anyway when the latest petitioner bows and leaves.

Liam swallows, and strides down the aisle with confidence. Lords and ladies murmur—he was expected back a week ago, he knows, but the beast had been more wily than he had anticipated, and there had been no way to send word. He hadn’t wanted to, if he was being honest with himself, had enjoyed the solitude of the mountains, with only the peasantfolk for company. Hadn’t wanted to return to this place, where he can trust so few.

But he would never stay away for long. He couldn’t. For duty. And for…

He kneels when he reaches the end of the rich red carpet, goes to one knee and bows his head. “Your highness,” he says, to the stairs at the bottom of the dais. “I come bearing news.”

“Oh?” Liam has waded through frozen streams, has stood firm with his brothers in arms in blizzards, has risen again from a wound-fever. But nothing has ever made him shiver as that single word does, from this man. “What can you tell me of the dragon, Sir Payne?”

“I have slain your dragon, majesty,” Liam replies, and he cannot help but look up then.

The prince is golden on his throne, beautiful beyond anything Liam has ever seen, his crown gleaming against the darkness of his hair. He is in red today, red as the blood stained across Liam’s tunic was when the dragon fell on his sword, and he rubs at it anxiously. If he had known the prince would be here, he would have washed. He would have come in shining, would have come in fit to stand beside his prince.

“And you are uninjured?” the prince asks. He tilts his head, and his face looks like the mask he has schooled it into, but Liam knows how to read past it, into what it was before. Can see the concern in the furrow of his brow, his pleasure at Liam’s return in the curve of his lips.

“I am,” Liam confirms. The prince gives him a narrow-eyed look, but Liam does not look away. He will be, soon enough. And he does not want the prince to think he is faltering in his defense.

“Then come. I would hear your counsel,” the prince says, and it’s only then that Liam rises and walks to stand beside the throne. From here, if he reached out, he could touch him, could set his fingers to the skin at the back of the prince’s neck and see that it is warm.

He does not. He listens to the prince’s judgments, gives what paltry help he can when he is bid, and only once volunteers his thoughts when the matter touches upon his home fief. The prince listens to each of the petitioners gravely, no matter their simple concerns that seem so far away from the blood on Liam’s sword, with the pointed, almost concrete concentration he always gives them, and gives his judgments with the same serious, heavy compassion that the people always glow to hear, that their prince cares so much for them. Liam’s hand rests upon his sword hilt, always, and it tightens when anyone steps too near, though he does not move. He understands too well the pull towards the throne.

His leg is burning by the time the prince declares court finished. He stays seated until the petitioners have left, then he rises and leaves before the courtiers. He does not even look for Liam, but the door remains open long enough for Liam to pass through with him, into the long corridors.

It’s only when they have reached the prince’s chambers, once he had waved his hand to dismiss the guards and servants to outside, that the prince’s cool mask drops into something warmer, though not much less guarded.

“Liam,” he says, and if Zayn’s voice had made him shiver the sound of him saying his name makes Liam weak as no blow ever has. “You’re back, thank the Lord.”

“Zayn,” Liam chides, and Zayn’s smile breaks, spreads across his face like the sun rising. “Don’t blaspheme,” Liam finishes, without force.

“You were gone an extra week without word,” Zayn retorts, and is still smiling as he places his hands on Liam’s shoulders. “I worried.”

“I was fine. I’m always fine.” Liam swallows. He knows Zayn worries. He has since they were boys together, before Zayn had turned serious a year ago, when it felt like the laughter went out of him among all but a few. Now, it seems he worries more, all the time. It should not comfort Liam as it does, on long nights along, hoping that Zayn is thinking of him, though he knows it is not as he thinks of Zayn.

“You might not have been,” Zayn retorts, a flash of the temper he never shows outside these walls, to those people who look upon them as their lord. To them, Liam knows, Zayn must always be untouchable, infallible, and they love him for it, their noble prince. Love him for his father, yes, who they respect, and the mother they worship, and the sisters they adore, but for him as well, for the prince who cares for them with all the compassion in his heart, with every particle of his being. To them, he cannot have a temper. To them, he cannot have a fault. It has always been Liam’s greatest honor to know that Zayn is not always strong. “You could have died, and I would not have known.” He shakes his head, clearing it. “But you’re hurt. Sit down, Liam. I’m sorry I made you stand. I should have let you go.”

“I wouldn’t have left,” Liam returns, but he sits, sinks onto a chair with a sigh he can’t hold in. It gets him another glare from Zayn, who crosses swiftly to the door to call out for ice. It’s only once a servant has fetched it, quickly enough Liam suspects someone had already called for it, that he returns to Liam.

“Wouldn’t that have been a scene,” he grins with a hint of mischief, a comforting hint of the boy he had been.

It wouldn’t have been a scene. Liam is sure his devotion to Zayn is the most open secret of the court. Everyone knows that while he swore his oaths to the king, it is the prince for whom he would live and die. He has never been good at hiding.

“I wouldn’t leave you unprotected.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “I had guards. And the people would not hurt me.”

“Some might.” Liam has seen that all too well. He knows, though he avoids, the machination of court. “I’d like to have seen you try to make me go.”

Zayn smiles again, and sinks to his knees next to Liam, to tug gently at his boots. And now Liam really could reach out to touch him, when he is no longer his shining prince but simply the best friend he has ever had.

“Zayn,” Liam says again, as Zayn places the ice on his ankle, his fingers gentle but fever-hot against Liam’s leg. They are not two boys anymore. Zayn is a prince now, and Liam is simply his most devoted servant. “You shouldn’t be tending to me.”

He does not move. “Did you see the little girl?” he asks instead. Liam does not look at him. It is too easy to sink into the dreams that keep him through nights alone, that leave him aching when he wakes, with Zayn’s head bent over as he studies Liam’s wound. “The one who came to thank me for her father’s life? Over a cow, Li. He was going to be killed because they could look no farther than him as a reason for a cow to go missing. We need more courts, it’s the only solution. Or maybe a travelling judge.”

“Zayn.” It’s the worst sort of torture, to be here, a torture he would never forgo.

Zayn ignores him. “I will have no little girls crying for their fathers,” he says, fiercely. In his distraction, his fingers climb up Liam’s leg to slide around his knee, and Liam does not gasp only because he has no breath left.

“Zayn,” he chokes out, a last time. “Get up—”

He looks up, at that. “But I need you whole,” he says, and his eyes are soft and kind and sincere. “Who else would slay my dragons?”

Liam cannot help but smile back, at this prince who cares, who has always cared too much. At his awesome prince who will be so glorious upon his throne. At the boy who has been his friend through years and war and change.

“There are others who would take a quest,” he says point out.

Zayn breathes out a laugh, and leans forward to rest his hand on Liam’s knee. “None I trust so much as you,” he says, looking upon at Liam with a smile in his eyes, though not on his lips, as is too often true, these days. “You keep my people safe. You keep me safe.”

“Always,” Liam vows, the truest vow he’s ever taken. He wishes there were a thousand dragons here, so he could slay them all for Zayn.


	3. Servant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And here's Merlin feels!

Niall is late. It doesn’t matter much, because it’s not like Zayn will be out of his meeting yet, but he is late, and he doesn’t like to be. Also, because it means he has to run through the castle while juggling the basket of clothes for the ball that night, and Niall is a big proponent of not running. Not like Zayn is, who actively tries to avoid Liam when he is looking to practice, but in general he finds it’s not his strongest suit.

In any case, he is in a hurry, and not much looking where he’s going, so when he crashes into someone as he takes a turn he’s not very surprised. He’s startled enough to tumble to the floor, but once he’s there he figures it was inevitable, and just chuckles as he stands up.

He stops chuckling, though, when he sees who it is. Most everyone in the castle likes Niall, because Niall likes most everyone in the castle, but sometimes his slightly unorthodox position in the court runs him into trouble. This trouble, unfortunately, comes in six feet of muscle along with a few feet of steel, so it can be a bit of a problem.

“Sir Carlton,” Niall nods when he gets up, turns to Sir Carlton’s friend. “Sir Grant.”

Sir Grant nods back, but Sir Carlton puffs up his chest. “You should bow to your betters, boy,” he spits.

It’s ridiculous, but not worth making a big deal out of. Niall sweeps a full, courtly bow, complete with a flourish. “My lord,” he adds, for good measure. This would be the knight he runs into.

“Are you mocking me?” Sir Carlton demands, his hand on his sword hilt. “Not all of us are as lenient as our prince, boy.”

He’s not yours, Niall wants to say, he’s not your anything, you bully, but instead he shrugs. “No mockery meant.”

“Good,” Sir Carlton retorts. His eyes are narrowed into a little piggy glare. “Just because you’re the prince’s slut doesn’t mean you can get away with anything.”

Niall raises his eyebrows, but it’s not like it’s the first time people have accused him of that, and it’s not like it’ll be the last, either. The fact that it’s not true is neither here nor there. People have never figured out how their prince can be such good friends with his servant. To their credit, he’s never quite figured it out either. “Okay,” he says instead. “I’ll go, then?”

Sir Carlton paces forward, clearly trying to intimidate Niall. It might work, if Niall was intimidatable, but he’s basically not. The knight is quite tall, though, and tipping his head back to keep eye contact sort of hurts Niall’s neck. “You know,” he says, and his voice is deeper. Is he trying to be sexy? Niall is a bit afraid he might be. Where is Liam when you need him? He might be weirdly formal with Niall, but he’d never let anything happen to him, a bit for Niall’s sake but definitely for Zayn’s. “One day the prince will tire of you, and—”

“And what?” The voice comes from behind Niall, and all three of them jump. Niall doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s behind him, but he does anyway. Zayn’s in full court regalia, fur-lined cloak and dark leathers, and he looks dark and dangerous, with the way his eyes are glinting like steel. If Sir Carlton is trying to be sexy, Zayn has never needed to try. “What will I do?” he asks, pacing forward to stand next to Niall. He’s not touching him, but he’s close enough that it’s a declaration.

Sir Carlton immediately backpedals, and Niall ducks his head to hide his grin. “Nothing, your highness,” he says, in his normal tone. Sir Grant is nodding enthusiastically. “Nothing at all.”

“That’s right,” Zayn agrees, evenly. Niall schools his face to something resembling serious for the occasion. “Don’t you have drill to be at, sirs?”

“Yes!” Sir Grant replies, his voice a bit higher than usual, “Come on, Carlton.” He grabs Sir Carlton’s arm to drag him away.

Niall manages to wait until they’re well on their way before he bursts into laughter. “Zayn, that was great!” he chuckles. Zayn so rarely has to throw his weight around that when he does Niall’s always a bit taken by surprise. “They were terrified!”

Zayn isn’t laughing. His eyes are still dark when they rake over Niall, from toe to the crown of his head. “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you?”

“Nah, they wouldn’t dare.” Niall bends down to pick up the basket, “Just the usual shit about me sucking your cock, and all.”

That gets an angry breath from Zayn, because he cares about things like Niall’s reputation. Niall’s never really minded, because first of all, no one who matters cares or thinks it’s true, and second of all, the only reason it’s not true is because Zayn wouldn’t. “I’ll—”

“Zayn, I’m fine, only thing got hurt was my bum, and that was just from falling on it.” Niall grins at Zayn, then pokes his stomach so he’ll smile. Zayn always gets too worked up about these things. “C’mon, we’ve got to get you all prettied up. Not that you need it, or anything.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he falls into step beside Niall as they pace up to Zayn’s rooms. “So,” Niall asks, “How was council?”

“Fine.”

It’s Niall turn to roll his eyes. “Tell me,” he insists. “If you can’t tell me, you can’t tell anyone.” He’s never really understood Zayn’s aversion to speaking his mind, because what he says is usually the most interesting thing being said.

Zayn shrugs, and holds the door open for Niall as they enter their chambers. Niall smiles his thanks.

“It’s just stuff about the ball,” he mutters. Niall nudges him with his hip as he sets the basket down on the floor. “They’re in talks,” he adds, as he wanders towards the bath in front of the fire, pulling off his shirt as he goes. Niall shakes out the clothes in the basket onto the bed rather than looking at him. It’s easiest that way, he’s found. “With Mercia.”

“Oh?” Niall asks, which sets Zayn off on a talk about the politics of the situation and what he thinks they should do. Niall listens as closely as he can as he putters around the room and looks anywhere but at Zayn.

He’s winding down, and it’s getting to the time when even Zayn, who has an earned reputation for being late to everything, has to get out of the tub, when Niall asks, “Why don’t you say this in council?”

“I told my father after,” Zayn says, and Niall can hear the bathwater drip as he stands. “Can you throw me the towel?”

Niall grabs the towel off the chair where it’s hanging, but then he has to turn to toss it, and he has to look.

“Anyway,” Zayn goes on, rubbing the dark green of his towel over the dripping golden lines of his skin, “I think it’s generally good, what they’re doing. It’ll be good for the farmers. And we won’t have to go to war.” Zayn shudders, and even Niall frowns. The last war had been before his time, but not Zayn’s. He knows Zayn still has nightmares from it, sometimes, still has days when Niall needs to stick close to make him smile, because sometimes it seems like he smiles more when Niall’s around than any other time. Liam told Niall that he hasn’t really smiled in years, and that Niall makes it better.

“So why only fine?” Niall asks. Zayn wanders over to the bed to look at what Niall’s laid out. He pressed his lips together as he studies the outfits like it’s a particularly difficult passage of Latin, and Niall snorts. Zayn sticks out his tongue back, and Niall laughs over the urge to bite at it.

“That one,” Zayn finally decides, on a doublet as emerald green as his towel. “And because, well, they’re…” he trails off.

“They’re?” Niall prompts.

“They want to cement it with a marriage,” Zayn says, flatly.

Niall’s hands stutter over the breeches he had been handing over. “Oh? Did you meet them?”

Zayn shakes his head. Water sprays a bit around him, and Niall doesn’t mind the drop that falls on his forehead because Zayn’s fingers are gentle as he wipes it away. “Going to tonight.”

“Oh.” Niall finds a grin, and finds even more that he means it. “Well, I’m sure they’ll be wonderful, and it’ll be wonderful.”

“Yeah, wish I could be too.” Zayn frowns down at the doublet. “Should I wear the blue? I think I should wear the blue.”

“You’re handsome either way,” Niall informs him, and Zayn makes another face, wrinkling his nose and pursing his lips together. “Come on, what are you nervous about?”

Zayn shakes his head. “It’s just important. That this at least has a chance of working. And I…”

He trails off again, and Niall just laughs as he takes the doublet out of Zayn’s hands to pull it over his head. He uses the opportunity to poke at Zayn’s belly button again, and sure enough when Zayn emerges he’s smiling a bit, his tongue pressing against his teeth.

“Anyone’d be lucky to have you,” Niall informs him, and turns away to find his sword belt. He’ll have to go find this lord or lady’s servants, see if he can talk to them, he decides. Just to make sure they know that with Zayn, you can’t just settle with looking on the surface. That for all his intimidating cool when he wants it, he’s the best person anyone’s ever seen.

He finds the belt under the bed, for no reason he can possibly remember, then gets back up to finish dressing Zayn. The belt’s more complicated than it looks, also for no reason Niall can understand, but it means he has to crouch to get it right, to make sure the scabbard falls exactly how it should so Zayn could draw his sword to defend his betrothed if he needed to. (Niall hopes he doesn’t need to, because he’s a bit hopeless with a sword, and his best bet would be to hide behind Liam.) Which means that for a long, long moment, Niall is kneeling in front of Zayn, his hands wrapping around his waist and for a second—just a second, when he glances up and Zayn is looking down at him, a rare smile in his eyes and on his lips, his stance firm and solid—he wonders what Zayn would do, if he just did what he wanted. If he would let him finally act out everything he’s dreamed about.

Then he stands up again, adjusts the fall of the scabbard. “There you go,” he says, and grins as he steps back to examine his work.

It’s been two years since Niall became Zayn’s servant, since Niall had come in expecting a spoiled brat of a prince, or an arrogant ass, and instead found Zayn, who was spoiled and arrogant at times but also shook his hand and hugged him when he had a bad day and never treated him as less than a noble. It’s been maybe more like one and a half since Niall’s been in love with him, since he realized what it meant that he always wanted to be around Zayn, that he thought Zayn was the most brilliant human being, that he would do what all the whispers say he does without a heartbeat’s hesitation. And it still takes just a bit for his heart to settle at the sight of Zayn is all his fancy dress, every inch the prince Niall, at least, knows he can be.

“There you go,” he repeats, and clears his throat. “If they don’t fall in love with you, they don’t deserve you.”

“Thanks, Nialler.” Zayn leans forward to drop a kiss onto his cheek, and Zayn will never notice if Niall leans into it. “I should go.”

“Only if you want to be on time,” Niall teases, and Zayn’s laughing as he leaves. Niall hopes he keeps laughing once he gets to the ball, once he meets this person he might marry, but he also sort of selfishly hopes he doesn’t, hopes it keeps on being Niall who’s best at getting Zayn to smile.

Niall sighs, closes his eyes, and lifts a hand to his cheek. Then he opens his eyes again. He has servants to find, and someone to woo by proxy.


	4. Prince(ss)

Harry waves goodbye to the ambassador in front of the whole court, so he pastes a smile on his face. He hadn’t liked the man, hadn’t particularly liked how he spoke to Harry, or about his mother, or the way he had smiled oily at Zayn, but he had been the last remnant of home Harry had here. Everyone else had gone home months ago, after the wedding, and the ambassador had at least spoken with the accent he knew, had used words he knew, and been a familiar face. And now there was no one.

Everyone is looking at him. They all like him, he’s fairly certain, except for the few who are still jealous he won a game he hadn’t meant to play, but he’s won them over carefully and thoroughly, in a campaign as planned as any of Zayn’s patrols. But that doesn’t mean they won’t jump on any perceived weakness. He might be officially of their land now, but they won’t forget, and he’s seen even now how cutthroat the court is. So he smiles, and turns to his side.

Zayn is the only one not looking at him, it seems. He’s staring into the distance, his face unreadable. Or unreadable by Harry, at least; some of the others—Sir Liam, Niall, though not many others, Harry thinks—have no difficulty reading it, understanding the moods Harry has yet to learn. But now, Harry thinks, he might be pensive.

The people in the crowd below are starting to shift, growing restless as the prince broods. “My lord,” Harry says, loud enough for Zayn to notice but too quiet to be heard below. “We should go.”

Zayn starts. “Right,” He mutters, as his gaze refocuses. “I need to…” he trails off, with a glance at the crowd that has Harry hiding his sigh.

“Well then,” Harry says, loudly this time. It’s not the first time he’s had to fill in a gap for Zayn, even in the few months of their marriage. “That’s him gone, then. I suppose we should as well.” Everyone laughs, except for Zayn, who has turned that pensive gaze to Harry. The gaze doesn’t waver as everyone disperses out of the courtyard, back to their daily tasks. It’s disconcerting. Zayn’s never focused that much attention on him, not even during the wedding that was possibly the third time they’d seen each other. He’d been distracted then, not looking at Harry at all. But now…now, Harry has an inkling of why people spill their secrets at his feet. Of why the people love him so.

“I’m going back to my rooms,” Harry announces, when the intensity gets too much. He can feel himself begin to blush, and needs to head that off. He cannot deal with his husband on top of the ambassador leaving. “I need to change before I go riding with Lord Venz and Sir Stanley.”

“Riding?” Zayn asks, then shakes his head. “Be careful,” he says instead. “Venz is a snake.”

“I know.” Harry represses the urge to snap. It won’t help anything. Does Zayn think he’s learned nothing, in all his careful study of the court? “But he’s a snake with lands, and so someone has to talk to him. Do you want to?”

He does laugh, at the horror in Zayn’s gaze. “I thought so. Enjoy your council meeting.” He turns to go, before he loses the smile, before he thinks too much about the sharp mountains that are nothing like the lush rolling hills of his childhood.

“Harry.” For a second, it almost looks like Zayn was moving, was looking to touch him as he never did except when expected. But then his arms falls back to his side, and Harry assumes he must be imagining it. His sober, unreachable husband would never touch him. Zayn is already glancing away when he says, “Enjoy your ride.”

\---

Harry does not particularly enjoy his ride, because Venz is not only a snake but a boring one, and Stanley is little more than his sidekick, but it occupies him. Dinner with the Weavers’ Guild takes up his evening, then Lady Croft’s ball the night, so he’s sufficiently distracted until he returns to his rooms late that night.

Zayn is still not in, Harry decides, from the door still set ajar that leads to his chambers, but that’s not unusual. He rarely comes back before Harry, only returning late after an evening spent over his books. And there’s none of the humming that means Niall is in. So Harry doesn’t bother shutting the door when he turns to his bed—and it’s only then that it hits.

He’s alone. He’s alone, in this land, and it’s not going to change. He’s learning the ways of the court, of the people, learning how to swim and even to keep Zayn afloat as well, now that their fates are tied together, but his family is days away. All the friends who know him, his old life, all of that is gone. He’s known that before, he’s been here for almost six months, but now there’s no one, and he’s alone.

He can’t hold back the tears, not here, as he tumbles onto his bed, clutching at the heavy locket his mother had given him when she left, with an image of her on one side and Gemma on the other. It was all he might see of them for years, now, and he curls tight around it.

“Harry?” He doesn’t know how long he has been crying when the soft voice cuts through it.

Someone is there. Harry can’t be this when someone can see. So he swallows down his tears, and sits up.

Zayn is leaning on the door connecting their chambers. He’s bare-chested, with only his breeches on, clearly having been mid-way through undressing to sleep when he heard Harry. He’s biting on his lip, as he often does when he looks at Harry, and it’s not the first time Harry’s been struck with how gorgeous his husband is, despite the lack of anything else between them.

That thought doesn’t help, not now, but Harry forces a smile again. “My lord,” he says, “I didn’t know you’d returned.”

“I only came back just now.” His gaze darts down to the floor, then up again, to fix on Harry. “Are you busy, tomorrow?”

“I—” Harry clears this throat from the remnants of his tears. “I don’t believe so. I have Lord Cameron’s ball, but nothing before that.” Plenty of time to wallow. “Why?” Maybe the Queen wants to see him, has something for him to do. The King certainly won’t.

“I—well, I was—” Zayn runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it so it hangs over his forehead. It makes him look younger, almost softer, though Harry had never known him to be soft. Sir Liam said that he was, once, that once he was carefree, laughed easily and often, but Harry’s never believed it. “Would you like to go riding, tomorrow? There’s a fair, a bit out of town, that I would think you haven’t seen before.”

“Riding?” Harry echoes. It’s so unexpected he’s not sure what to say. He hadn’t even known Zayn knew how to sit a horse, though he knew intellectually that Zayn had been knight-trained and must be able to ride. “With you?”

Zayn gaze slides away from Harry again, down to his hands, where Harry was still holding the locket. “Not if you would prefer otherwise, of course. You like Liam, I could get him to go with you, if you wanted someone else to accompany you. Or any one else you wanted. I just thought, because you’d been so lonely, you might want a distraction—”

“But won’t you be busy?” Harry cuts him off. He hasn’t seen Zayn take a day to himself since he got here. Hadn’t known he could.

Zayn shrugs. He’s still looking at the floor. “You’ve been lonely,” he says, like it’s an explanation, even though it’s the opposite of one.

“How do you know that?” Harry demands. He’d thought he’d hidden it well, hidden it from everyone, so everyone thought he was pleased to be here, that he loved it here with them and was ready to start playing their games even if he wasn’t madly in love with his husband. “I never said that.”

“Other than you crying?” Another shrug. “Your smile is different when you aren’t happy.”

Harry’s jaw nearly drops. No one’s ever noticed that before other than his family. Zayn hasn’t even looked at him, how does he see? When had he noticed?

“It was just an idea.” Zayn shakes his head, pulling back through the threshold to his rooms. “You don’t have to, or I really can ask Liam, he’d be happy—”

“No!” Harry blurts out. Zayn pauses, tilts his head like a question. “I mean,” Harry says, slower, and smiles. It’s almost real. Zayn knows when he’s unhappy. It’s almost enough. “Need to be shown the fair by an expert, don’t I? Bet you’re the best.”

“I am,” Zayn agrees, and he smiles back, and oh, Harry was not expecting that, the slow-growing smile that spreads over Zayn’s face, into his eyes so they sparkle with mirth when his gaze flicks back up under his eyelashes, the way it turns his face from marble into light. He’s never seen Zayn smile before, Harry thinks, almost dazedly. “I went with—” the smiles dies a bit, for a second, changes, but then Zayn shakes his head and goes on, “A friend and I went every year when we were children, snuck away so—”

“You snuck away?”

“Of course, not like my mother would let me go.” The smile’s careless now, a flash of mischief that Harry had never expected in his stoic husband, even if it’s tinged in nostalgia. “But we did plenty of exploring. I probably remember it still.”

“I look forward to it, then,” Harry manages to get out. Zayn needs to smile more; they wouldn’t need treaties if Zayn smiled more. Wouldn’t need armies. “You can tell me all about your escapades. We should leave early, I presume, so we have time before the ball?”

“Right.” The smile’s fading from Zayn’s lips, but the remnants of it are still there, now that Harry knows they can be. “I’ll just—” He jerks his head back, to the door behind him, and turns to go.

Harry glances at his room, at the big empty bed, at the way it echoes without all of the things he couldn’t manage to bring from home. At the locket he’s holding, with his family in it. At Zayn’s back, the broad shoulders and narrow hips, the proud tilt of his head.

“Zayn?” he calls. Zayn glances over his shoulder. His face is serious again, but Harry was wrong, it’s not expressionless. It’s just serious. “Can you—can you stay here tonight? With me?” Harry swallows. Zayn is his husband. It is not unreasonable to ask. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Zayn blinks, his eyelashes brushing over his cheeks, and his gaze skirts over Harry, but he nods, biting his lip again. “Of course,” he agrees, “I’ll be back in a moment.” He disappears behind the door.

When he does slip into bed beside Harry, putting out the candles as he goes so Harry barely sees the lean lines of his body as he moves through the room, he does so on the other side of the bed, and lies so stiffly Harry can feel it. Harry sighs, again.

“Zayn,” he says, and reaches out between them to take Zayn’s hand. It’s warm and calloused, as Harry knew, but he has never known it quite like this, down to his gut. “I—”

Zayn turns onto his side. His eyes are glinting in the darkness. “What do you need, Harry?” he asks.

Harry can’t look at him, not when he’s beautiful cast in shadows, when he still feels so far away. So Harry closes his eyes. “I need you to be here,” he answers.

There’s movement, then there’s a warm body tucked behind his, a hand cradling Harry’s hand on his chest, and warm breath on his neck. “I’m here,” Zayn murmurs. “I’m sorry, I’m here.”

Zayn falls asleep first, just like that, Zayn curved around Harry like Harry’s his locket, with Zayn’s legs tucked around Harry’s and Harry’s hand still held in Zayn’s. But Harry lies awake a while longer, thinking about his family far away. Then it changes into thinking about Zayn’s smile, about the fair the next day, about the look Zayn had given Harry in the courtyard. About the echoing promise Zayn had just made, like wedding vows.

There are worse things, he decides, as he scoots subtly back closer to Zayn, then starting the long fall into love with his husband.


	5. King

He doesn’t look any different than normal.

That’s what Zayn notices, as he stares at himself in the mirror. He looks the same. He’s in a new doublet, a blue Harry had chosen because he said it reminded him of the night they met, and he probably looks exhausted, after the past two weeks of staying unbroken for the people still mourning their king, but other than that he’s the same. Still too skinny, despite Liam dragging him to the practice grounds every few days; still short and overwhelmed in his finery. Still utterly out of place. This isn’t him. He’s good enough at the logistics, and everything else, but not—this. Not being this person, in gold and silver and jewels, the only part bare his head. And not for long. He can already feel the weight of it, so much heavier even than three weeks ago, when he was but the prince.

“You still admiring yourself?” Niall asks, slipping in the door behind him. He grins as he does, over Zayn’s shoulder in the mirror. He’s in all his finery as well, his livery gleaming nearly as bright as his smile, as he comes up behind Zayn to clap him on the shoulder. “You look handsome as ever, you know that.”

Zayn manages to smile back, because it’s Niall, and even in his darkest moments Niall makes him smile. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I was dressed by the best.”

“And never forget it,” Niall adds, tugging on a sleeve to adjust its set, then letting his hand rest there. “I’m always right, you know that.”

“Even when you tried to eat the gift from the Mercian ambassador?” Zayn teases.

Niall grins. “We ended up on the better side of that treaty, so yeah, it worked out.” Zayn laughs, and Niall beams back at him. “By the way, this was sitting in your rooms, with a note. Had your name on it, so I thought you’d want to see it.”

He holds out a package, and Zayn takes it, peels back the cloth wrapped messily around it—then his breath catches as a golden pendant falls out, bright as the day he’d last seen it. Or the night, rather, when it had disappeared up Louis’s sleeve and out of his life. He grabs for the note.

_This isn’t me returning it, mind_ , it reads, in a messy scrawl that Zayn doesn’t recognize. Louis hadn’t known how to write more than his name when he had left. _It’s a loan. Thought you might want it today, and I’ll be insulted if you don’t wear it. I’ll know. Keep your window open some night, I’ll need to get it back. Not that a window could stop me. I’ve got ideas, though, you should hear them. Heard you’ve been doing good. Glad your choice was worth it._

The pendant is cold as he slips it over his neck, so it hits over his heart; a heavy weight as well. It hadn’t looked heavy, that night as it fell from Louis’s hand, when Zayn had been so close to freedom and turned away. This is the weight he chose, he thinks, closing his eyes against the memories of running wild with Louis through the fair, Louis the firebrand he had never known. Louis’s kiss, fierce and hot against his lips, that he still remembers like it was yesterday. He could have left then, he knows, could have been happy. But he had chosen, and he doesn’t regret it.

Niall doesn’t question when he drops his head, just turns him to wrap him in a hug. “You don’t need to worry about anything, you know,” he says, as Zayn breathes into his shoulder. “No matter what the nobles think, the people have all been talking about how happy they are with you.”

“Wouldn’t say anything else to you,” Zayn points out, and Niall grins.

“I get around, though. Hear things.” He looks up when the door opens again, and steps back as what Zayn recognizes as Harry’s footsteps come in. “Good luck, Zayn,” he says, and brushes a quick kiss to Zayn’s cheek as he leaves, with a smile for Harry.

Harry smiles back at him. It’s good to see Harry smiling for real, after so many months of fake smiles and forced laughter.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, drawing Zayn up with a hand on both shoulders.

Zayn nods. Harry’s already wearing his coronet—his coronation as consort isn’t until next month. It’s nearly lost in his curls, but it’s still there. It looks light. That’s not fair, Zayn knows, because Harry has been working hard as well to ensure an easy transfer of power, but Harry’s always worn his crown easily.

“Remember, speak loudly and slowly. Your cheekbones will do the rest,” Harry informs him, and moves the pendant so it sits in the center of his chest, rather than over his heart. Zayn shakes his head, and twitches it back. Harry sighs and leaves it, then begins to fiddle with his collar. “And if you forget your lines, I’ll be right there, I can fall off my seat or something and distract everyone until you remember.”

“My giving husband,” Zayn teases. He’s so, so glad they’ve found this, this friendship at least after Harry was miserable so long. Now he’s invaluable, in every way. Now Zayn can trust the person by his side.

Harry grins, dimpling, and cups Zayn’s face in his hands. “You’ll be fine,” he informs him. “You’re good at this. Your people love you.”

“But that’s just when I was a prince,” Zayn mutters. As a prince, he never had to make the hard decisions, always had his father’s council. He had tried to do the right things, make the right choices, and he still would—but what if he was wrong? What if despite everything, his best is not enough?

“And they’ll love you as king, too,” Harry says, surely. “You’ve overwhelming support among the nobles, and the ones who don’t like you will work with you. You’ll be okay. And I’ll be here to help.” He presses his lips to Zayn’s quickly, gently, as they’ve been doing lately, and then he too steps away. “I need to make sure everything’s in order, take my seat. You know your cue?”

“Yes, Harry,” Zayn tells him, and Harry grins again before he too leaves.

He’ll be fine, Zayn repeats to himself, and turns back to the mirror. He doesn’t look like a king. He doesn’t look like he can care for a whole country, can guide them to prosperity and peace. What does he know? He wasn’t meant to be the king for years yet. He has so much more to learn.

The knock on the door makes him jump. “Enter,” he calls, and smiles when Liam comes in, bows.

“Sire.”

“Not yet.” Zayn rolls his eyes at Liam’s formality. “What is it, Liam?”

“I knew you would be nervous.” Liam’s hand rests on his sword hilt. He’s almost blinding to look at, his armor polished brighter than Zayn’s ever seen it. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Zayn swallows. Liam had always known him best. “Thank you.”

Liam comes to stand beside him in silence, so Zayn can simply take in his strength, the steady presence beside him, as always. His strong right arm, the slayer of his dragons. His rock throughout the turns of his life.

“I’m to swear to you first of the knights,” Liam says, quietly. “I asked.”

“Liam, you don’t need to.”

“I do. I need to say the words aloud.” Liam turns to Zayn, and he has that look in his eyes he gets sometimes, like Zayn is more than just a man, more than just his friend who ran with him through the castle courtyards. “Your father was a good king. But you’re…more,” he finishes, his cheeks staining lightly red.

The majordomo sticks his head in the room. “We’re beginning,” he tells them. “Sir Payne, you should join the guard.”

“Thank you,” Liam tells the man, and turns to Zayn with that look still in his eyes. “My prince,” he says, bowing again, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword, his armor clanging slightly. “My king.”

Then he’s gone as well, and the music is starting to play.

The ceremony is a blur, with Zayn too focused on not erring in the intricate protocol, the dance of recitation and bows and prayers that goes on too long. He says the words, bows at the right time, and keeps his fists clenched at his sides, as he has for so long. He is here as a prop for his people, and that he can be, a statue of marble who never falters. He can be what he must be for his people.

Not until the crown is before him does anything register, a huge gold circle on its purple cushion, that had always made his father rub his temples when he removed it, made his mother rub his neck to ease out the aches of holding his head high.

“With the taking of this crown,” the old priest intones, “You are taking on the oaths of this land. With this crown, you are its master and its slave. With this crown, you become the guardian of its people. Do you swear to uphold these oaths, in the sight of the lords, the land, and the people?”

For an instant, there is silence, and it is almost like Zayn is alone. Like the world stops, and there is just Zayn and the crown, and a lightness he might never feel again. He has been strong for so, so long, it feels like; has never let anyone he does not trust see him stumble. Has never once remembered that he was not a marble statue for the people to look upon in awe. Not since he made that choice, so long ago. But he has taken no oaths yet. He could still run, as he did not then. Could still flee from this weight he will have to bear alone.

Except—Harry is gazing at him from his throne, ready to share his burdens. Niall is beaming at him from the pews, so proud, always, of everything he does. Liam stands with the knights, all the belief in the world shining out of him. Louis is somewhere in the crowds, returned despite everything.

Zayn reaches out, and lifts the crown, turns to face his people. “I so swear,” he says, loudly enough that it echoes in the hall, and places the crown upon his head.

“Long live the king!” The cry bursts out, a ringing chant that fills Zayn’s ears, and as he looks out upon all the smiling faces before him the crown barely feels a weight at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to talk about it? Want to yell at me about it? Come say hi on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/) Comments are love.  
> 


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